Why do people bring misbehaving toddlers and other bratty
children into sit-down restaurants? Why,
why, why?
I never allowed my children, at any age, to misbehave in any
public place where they might upset paying patrons of a non-childproofed
establishment. My parents never allowed
us to do it, either. There are plenty of
family-friendly places to take your kids: McDonalds, Burger King, Friendly's,
Chuck E, Cheese, Siberia, Antarctica.
But you don't need to take them to a sit-down, upscale restaurant simply
because that's where you as an adult want to eat.
You as a parent give up the right to eat in nice restaurants
when you attend the births of your own children. (It's true. I've seen it on the birth certificates at the
county courthouse. I'm not lying.)
Can you bring your youngsters into a fine dining
establishment? Absolutely. However, if your child throws things, spits,
screams, cries, bounces on the booth seat, stands up and stares over the bench,
or otherwise assaults me in my air space, you're damn well going to hear about
it. Or the restaurant management is.
Why is this in my craw?
Because in the course of a sixty-minute lunch the other day, I
encountered not one, not two, but three gross and open displays of bad
parenting. That's right; bad
parenting. You can't blame the kid for
being a brat. That's like blaming the
dog because you never trained it to urinate outside; of course it's going to
lift its leg and piss on you. You
allowed it to happen.
I try to avoid these situations, I truly do. I go to non-kid-friendly places to eat with
the distinct intention of interacting with adults who can wipe their own chins
(and, presumably, their own asses). I
ask the host or hostess for seats away from children, should there be any. (This is as much for their families' peace of
mind as it is for my own.) Short of
going to adult-only establishments, I do my part in this child-avoidance dinner
battle.
The other day I went to a restaurant I had never been to
before. It's a chain restaurant that
many people rave about, and I was anxious to try it out. As soon as my guest and I got in the door, a
stroller cut in front of us. Yes, two
young parents were behind it, but it was a stroller, meaning the child was way
too young for the complimentary wine.
After the stroller people were seated, I said to the ancient, decrepit,
hunched over, near-death hostess, "Two please, preferably away from
children."
With that simple statement, Brunhilda gave me the Stare from
Sicilian Hell (some of you know exactly that look - I took it from my former
mother-in-law and her mother for decades).
She promptly sat us near the front door and instructed the wait staff to
ignore us for seventeen minutes. In the
meantime, another young couple came in with a toddler and sat on the bench to
wait for a table. The toddler
fidgeted. Then he squirmed. He followed
that with the arms-in-the-air complete-and-total meltdown into a gel blob on
the dirty lobby floor. This performance
he topped off with a high-pitched soprano aria that sounded something akin to
pigs at slaughter.
Once the waitress finally arrived, she took our drink
orders. At this point, I was ready to
start gnawing the shellac off the table, and when the drinks finally arrived,
she clearly served me the wrong one.
There was no way I was going to wait another seventeen minutes, so I
simply walked over to the bartender, a rotund Italian man with a high-pitched,
female voice (probably practicing arias with the toddler), who berated me and
insisted that I drink the shit he'd poured me because that's what the waitress
wrote down, therefore I would drink it and be grateful. (And my answer was, with a smile, "Go
fuck yourself, Mario." Hence why I
stood and watched him pour the draught so I knew he didn't spit in it.)
Walking back to the booth with my correct drink, a boy of
about the age of ten started waving his arms around and running back and forth
in front of me. His parents, clearly
unmoved by this inappropriate display, allowed him to buzz around me like he
was a Puritan girl in full regalia and I was the Maypole. Finally I put my free hand right in his face
and yelled, "STOP." He
flinched, and my eyes followed him, keeping my palm right up to his nose. "You.
Stop." His shocked parents
dropped their jaws (but didn't bother picking up their manners), and I
maneuvered around the petulant but suddenly still child.
The final straw, though, was the woman with the young
daughter, probably age two, because the child was walking, talking, and way too
large for the silly wooden high chair she insisted upon sitting in at the table
in the bar. As they stood to leave, the
mother leaned over, sniffed her daughter's ass, pulled the child's panties
open, peered in, stuck her hand in, then sniffed again. Apparently seeing really isn't believing when
it comes to butt-sniffing. Explains why
dogs do it so frequently and with such gusto.
I like going out to eat, and when I do, I try to do my part
in the selection of appropriate venues.
By the way, the lunch that eventually made its way to our table was
lovely, it was a nice day out, and the complimentary wine was worth the
visit. However, now you all know why
people don't invite me out to eat very often:
My expectations are too high. I
really don't want screaming toddlers warbling imitation operetta selections in
a key only dogs should have to hear. I
really don't want any pre-teen brats swatting my beer out of my hand. I really don't want to see anyone sniff or
finger-test a child's bowel movement at the table.
I may sound like I'm being an asshole, but I truly do not
think I'm asking too much.
